An Ordinary Life
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: A short written for the mid-year fanfiction exchange at the CMDA...Life is always pretty dull for friends and relatives of the Grey Wardens who vanquished the Archdemon. Or is it? A brief peek into the life of one of Team Tabris.


A/N: Written for the Cheeky Monkeys mid-year fic exchange for Seika; who writes some awesome fics about even more awesome elves. And inspired by Oleander's One's _Intemperance _who 'owns' the world's most adorable Papa Tabris.

oOOo

**An Ordinary Life**

The day they were married was a fine one. For once the breezes that blew second hand from the Amaranthine - across the wide expanse of the city of Denerim, past the bustling harbour, through the busy stalls of the marketplace and then down the river to be tainted by the slums and seedier parts of the capital city of Ferelden – remained offshore. Instead, the wind that ruffled the scant bunting and carefully groomed wedding guests came not from the east, but from the north of the country.

From Highever.

It seemed his bride had brought more than a simple marriage agreement with her, but the weather from her place of birth as well.

It was, Cyr would believe from then on…a promise of things to come. That nothing would be simple again; or ordinary. No. Never ordinary.

And she stood out; _his _bride. The girl from Highever. The one they said was unmarriageable, unsuitable…_wild, _they said. And she stood out, with her distinctive hair of midnight black and her copper-brown eyes, she held herself like no other Alienage girl. Taller, straighter, her hair gathered up and away from her finely-carved, pale features to display her elven ears proudly and without fear or embarrassment.

"I've been hearing some interesting things about your Intended…"

Cousin Murtag arrived in a flurry of city dust and the scent of amber ruin. Cyr grunted at the arrival, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

"On the bottle already, cuz?" he asked, with an enquiring lift of an eyebrow. "That's extreme, even for _you_."

Murtag threw himself onto one of the two pieces of furniture in the house, draping an arm carelessly over his forehead. A single visible reddened eye glared at Cyr.

"I'll remind you…you aren't the only poor sod who's getting leg-shackled today."

Cyr smiled, lifting the corner of the curtain to resume his surveillance of the crowd gathered at the podium. His eyes were drawn once more to that head of black; so vividly stark against the washed out browns and greys of the surrounding Alienage buildings. She wore blue, a colour that clashed with the bright yellows and oranges of the other wedding guests…including the young woman standing next to her; the other bride of the day. Murtag's betrothed. Cyr forced his attention from the striking dark-haired woman to the brown-haired one talking animatedly beside her.

Cyr struggled with his current store of words and failed. "She's…pretty," he managed.

"I heard that pause. And _your _pretty lady comes with a _reputation,_ Cyr," Murtag told him with a twist of his mouth. "Da says the sooner you bring her to heel, the better. Wild as a Dalish that one. You don't need her causing trouble for the rest of us. Maybe even move back to Highever, if they'll have her back…"

Cyr smiled to himself, his attention inexorably arrested once more by the taller of the two women.

_Adaia…_his mind breathed. 'Gift of the Gods' her name meant. It was…appropriate, Cyr thought.

oOOo

The day their daughter was born was as unlike their wedding day as black from white. The Alienage's _Doula _arrived almost too late, hampered by the heavy rain and blustering, freezing winds. Disoriented by the storm the elderly woman had gone to the wrong house, found and fetched back by a distraught Cyr. By the time they had made it back, so had the tiny, red-faced infant and there was little to do except make sure his wife was well and welcome his child to the world. Counting toes and fingers to reassure themselves there weren't more than the expected number was optional.

"You have that face Cyr…" Adaia had smiled at him tiredly.

"What face would that be?" he had asked, wanting to reach out to the both of them, but so afraid he would break them somehow by doing so.

Adaia laughed then winced. "Ouch. That hurt. Your 'Cyr Face'," she explained.

"I don't have a Cyr face," he defended himself with a sniff.

"As you say…" his wife said quietly, lifting a shaking hand to touch the side of his face. "Hold her."

"What?" Cyr jerked beside her, looking wide-eyed and hopeful, but fearful at the same time.

"She doesn't bite," Adaia assured him, adding with a mischievous smile; "Yet."

"If she's anything like her mother, I expect she would," Cyr chuckled. He paused, took a deep breath and resolutely held his arms out towards his wife. She laughed at him again, shaking her head even as she tucked their new daughter into her husband's arms, continuing to smile as Cyr remained stiff armed and still as a Templar Guard. The only thing soft about him was his expression and that was definitely _goofy _as well_. _

"So…" Adaia began. "What do you think?"

"She's…" Cyr searched his brain feverishly for the right words. For the second time in his life, he failed. "She's so…so small…" was all he could come up with, given the present circumstances.

"And thank the Maker for that," Adaia said wryly. "Any bigger and I would have had to cut her out myself…Ooh, there's that Cyr Face again…"

Cyr stared searchingly at his wife. "You…you…Oh you would have, wouldn't you?" he stated at last.

"I am nothing if not a practical woman, love."

"And…?"

"And?" Adaia echoed.

The door to their tiny home - barely a room on its own – rattled in the wind as the storm gathered its forces for one last, concerted effort to demolish the thin walls about them.

"Her name!" Cyr raised his voice above the wind; but only slightly, though the infant continued to sleep completely unperturbed by the rage of elements outside.

"Name?" Adaia shouted. "I was thinking Daisy-do, or maybe Poppette!"

Cyr blinked at her.

"No?" Adaia bellowed. "How about Zamia? No? Valentina? Too Orlesian? How about naming her after the Grand Cleric!"

"You mean Augusta?" Cyr asked.

"No. I mean 'Grandie' or 'Clerica'! It would certainly make her name memorable!"

Cyr grinned, laughing above the wind and rain. He shook his head. Leaning forward he pressed his forehead against his wife's. "Awel…"

"Ah well?" Adaia gave him a long, suspicious look. "What do you mean 'ah well'? Giving up already?"

"No," Cyr explained. "'Awel'…" he repeated. "It means 'gentle breeze'."

Adaia cocked an eyebrow at him. "_That _the best you can come up with?" she questioned. "After my genius suggestion of 'Clerica'?"

He nodded and the storm agreed, gusting hard enough at the shutters to blow them wide open; rain and sleet sweeping into the room. Handing his daughter hastily back to her mother, Cyr threw himself at the shutters, wrestling them back into place while Adaia laughed behind him.

"'Ah well' it is!"

oOOo

"Pa…"

"You should go now, child…" he told her, unable to keep the heaviness from his voice or his heart from wanting to slow to a complete stop. "Before your old father embarrasses himself."

"I'm…sorry," she told him.

A single touch on his shoulder and she was gone, as soft and silent as her name. He would have spared her a violent end if he could. He was her father after all. The only parent she had left, Maker rest her mother's soul. But there had been _plans_. A future to look forward to; marriage, grandchildren playing about his feet. The last thing he could have wished on his only child was a life like _this…_though, what would have been the alternative? Death by hanging? Beheading? Awel deserved none of this. Shianni and the others were safe. For now…nor could he regret Awel knowing what she did. How could he? If Adaia had not trained their daughter as she had been trained, things could have been a lot worse.

Or so he told himself.

Touching the cord of leather around his neck, Cyr finally turned, facing the blank door. He wished he had had the strength to have given his only child this final gift; her mother's wedding ring. It was the last thing that he had left of Adaia…besides memories too brief and fleeting to complete him. It was a selfish act perhaps; one of defiance. Death had taken his wife and now the Grey Wardens claimed his daughter.

Keeping something back – just one thing – to himself, perhaps he could keep them both beside him. Always.

oOOo

The hours had turned into days. Days had turned into weeks…and the weeks ceased to be distinct from each other. It was only _time_ and time had ceased to have any meaning for him too long ago to remember. There was only night and day and work in between and even then, if not for the lightening and darkening of the skies, Cyr would not have noticed those either.

He noticed the dead though. The Tevinters used and discarded slaves as quickly as Orlesian courtesans changed their shoes. He noticed because it was his job to take them away, dragging their bloated, abused bodies to the tanneries…Tevinters disliked waste even more than laziness in their slaves. He didn't collect any coin for his efforts. That went directly to the Master. While he, disposer of the dead was rewarded with a rotting, mouldering corner in a cellar to sleep in if and when it came to him, until the next call to clear away another body.

He wondered whether there would be anyone to take his corpse somewhere to be turned into vellum for the Magisters and Imperial Scholars when it was his turn…He was old. It would not be much longer, he supposed…

His hand on the door, Cyr paused. He knew the Rite, at least. Most of these people had been Fereldan once. Andrastrian. Many of them had come from Denerim; neighbours, friends, children…devoted to their faith. They deserved to be committed to the Maker, to be returned to Him, even if He had deserted them in their hours of need. But who would recite the Chant for _him_?

"That's him right?"

"I…believe so…"

Cyr froze a moment before the world went dark and then suddenly sideways. Jostled about mercilessly, he had little time to discern what had happened until he heard shouts and the sound of fighting nearby. Was he being stolen by a rival Magister? No. He wasn't that valuable, if at all.

He resigned himself to whatever fate the Maker had in store for him. _Adaia…my love, I will see you soon…_

"Right. In here."

Doors opened and closed. More running ensued. The temperature plunged…they were travelling…downwards? Cyr could not tell; confused by the rise in temperature once more and the angle he was being held at, slung over someone's shoulder. Whoever had abducted him set him down eventually with more gentleness than he could ever have expected. It…shocked him. When the cloth was removed from his head, he blinked in the sudden, painful light.

"Well now, Papa…" One of his abductors gradually resolved itself from a dark blur to a set of blackened leather armour and shoulder length, wheaten hair, swept back by two neat braids. Golden eyes in a deeply tanned face scrutinised him closely. "Let us have a look at you, eh?"

"So…" the young man continued, cocking his head to the side. "This is the father of our illustrious leader, hm? I must admit, there is not much of a resemblance."

"Eh?" The other speaker - a…human - appeared, bearing blankets over one shoulder and a basin of steaming water in his hands. The basin was placed beside Cyr, the blankets the human began piling on top of him, tucking the corners around his sides. It felt…strange, surreal. Perhaps this was all a dream? Perhaps he had already died and he was in the Fade? But…Cyr frowned. The chair beneath him felt real. He turned his head. The heat from the fire in the grate felt real. These…strange men felt – and smelled - _real_.

"He looks…shocked," the human said, peering a little too closely for comfort.

Cyr raised an eyebrow. He was not being treated with unkindness…only…curiosity was it? That felt even stranger somehow.

"Maybe we should tell him who we are?"

"And risk her wrath?" the golden haired elf snorted. "You're a braver man than I am."

"Hey, you're _betrothed_ to her," the human quipped. "In my book, that's the equivalent of taking on the Achdemon."

"I'm going to tell her you said that."

"Fifty gold if you don't."

"Sixty and it's a deal."

"Too late," a _voice _said behind Cyr. "So the both of you can keep your ill-gotten gold…Unless you feel inclined towards a few rounds of Diamondback later this evening."

"What, Diamondback with you, my lovely?" the golden-haired one stared, mock-aghast at the new speaker. "I might as well hand all my gold, clothes and underwear to you now and save myself the humiliation."

Cyr squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He could feel the newcomer draw close, bringing with her a gentle breeze as warm as summer sunshine and smelling faintly of leather, polish and dust. His mind slipped back to a day, many, many years ago, to a young man peering from between curtains across the Alienage square to a pennant-strewn podium. In amongst the haze of yellow-bright colour…the memory of a head of midnight dark hair and a blue dress rose in his mind.

When he opened his eyes, the memory was made flesh, real…Eyes of copper brown and hair of deepest, darkest black tucked defiantly behind slender ears, proclaimed her race proudly.

"A…Adaia…?" he whispered hoarsely.

She smiled up at him, touching his shaking hands with her own. There was a scar that ran from her left temple, down the side of her face all the way under the neckline of her armour. He frowned. He was quite sure that Adaia did not have such a scar…

"No, Pa…"

"Awel…"

She laughed…an incongruously childish sound for such an old face…for her face was old; old before her time he felt. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that should not have been there, but what did he know? What kind of life had she lived since she had left the Alienage? What horrors had his girl had to experience as a Grey Warden? He had not expected to _see_ her again, much less…

"Why do you say it like that?" she asked him. "You always say it the way Mama did."

"Ah…well!" the other two men intoned behind her, clearly familiar with this particular joke.

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you _soooooo_ much, gentlemen."

Cyr saw the golden-haired elf nudge the human with his elbow. "I think this may be our cue to leave. Unless I have mistaken the dulcet call of Lady Self-Preservation."

"No. That'd be my stomach. I'm hungry."

"_Again_, Ser?"

"What? Why are you surprised?" the human spread his hands wide. "In the time we've known each other, when have I ever _not_ been hungry?"

"Ah well then, you will excuse my faith in your self-restraint, yes?"

"Nope."

"You are…as the Orlesians say '_opeless'_…"

"Yup."

As the two men and their good humoured tit-for-tat conversation departed, the human ruffled the woman's hair. The elf however, paused to smooth the tangles, leaning down to place a kiss on the tip of one of her ears. "We will have a formal introduction, later yes?"

"In good time…"

The door closed behind them softly. Cyr remained staring, still hoping that this would not turn out to be some kind of cruel dream, or experiment by his Master, making him think things that he shouldn't – and couldn't – have.

But she remained smiling up at him. When she received no response, she squeezed his hands gently.

"I swore I'd get you back, Pa," she told him. "I swore I'd bring you home again," she added. "And I will."

"Home?" Cyr repeated numbly.

She nodded, this woman that looked so much like his dead wife, but bore the symbol of the rearing Griffon on her breastplate. A woman that had survived the Blight and then travelled to Tevinter to…_collect_ him.

"Yes, Pa. _Home_…"

oOOo

The curtains billowed about his body as Cyrion gazed across the colourfully festooned balconies of the Keep. The colours of the Order of the Grey were sombre but defiant against the blues, yellows and reds of the bunting and banners hanging from the stonework everywhere else. He'd been told to prepare himself against the cold in these northernmost climes. In truth, though there had been days when it felt as though the very stone of Keep would steal the warmth from his body, today was far, far different.

Cyr smiled to himself. His daughter would tell him that it was he who brought sunshine and heart-warmth back to Soldiers Peak, but he could not imagine that a day like today could be anything but fine, the weather and the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread and roasting meats in the air tugging him back to a day like this…when he looked out of a draughty window to spy the head of shining raven black. There had been his cousin, half drunk al…

"_Urrppp…_!"

For a wild moment, Cyr thought he had indeed been transported physically back to his own wedding day, until a flame-haired dwarf fell stumbling through the bedroom door.

Cyr blinked the last fragments of his nostalgia away while the dwarf waved a near-empty flagon at him.

"Drunk already, Warden?" Cyr said automatically.

"Just practisin' for the party after…heh," the dwarf – Oghren - informed him, swaying wildly but still managing to stay upright. The flagon was presented to Cyr again. "But I ain't drunk. Not yet. Plenty more hours in the day for drinkin', Pa."

_Pa…_Cyr rolled his eyes. That title appeared to be sticking, it seemed. He smiled to himself again. He supposed he didn't mind too much.

"I was ta ask ya whether an' when you're gonna…horn…hun…honker us with yourn presence," the dwarf continued, raising the flagon to his unruly beard even as the small bundle under the window stirred. "Hey! Who the stone-cursed-nug-bottom-bucking bronto poop drank all my ale? Ah, yer…"

Cyr cleared his throat loudly while Oghren applied one bleary eye to the mouth of the flagon, peering into the neck of the vessel as though by merely looking at it, it would magically re-fill with ale. A moment layer a small head bumped into Cyr's side, thin arms wrapping around his leg. A wide yawn preceded an accusing glare in the dwarf Warden's direction.

"Uncle Oggie…"

"What?" Oghren widened blue eyes innocently. "This is my first of the day. I swear."

Feeling some kind of intervention was necessary, Cyr placed his hand on the child's head.

"Well," he announced. "Now that the important people are rested and ready, we can have a wedding yes?"

He was rewarded with a bright, gappy smile and a leg hug. "And when Mamma marries Uncle Zev for real, you'll officiously be my Grandpa, right Pa Tabris?" she asked.

Cyr smiled lopsidedly. "Something like tha…"

The sound of pounding feet outside interrupted his gentle correction. A flurry of hairpins, heavy brocade and lace skidded into the room. "Ha!" the vision announced. "And Leliana said I couldn't run in this dress. That'll learn her! Made it in two minutes, four seconds and I only ripped the train a _little_." She hopped into the room. "Just don't tell her. She gets kinda funny about shoes and hair and weird girly stuff."

"Yeah, and it's all gunna be ripped off later in the _boodwah_ anyway, heh heh heh…" the dwarf cackled; Cyr hastily clapping two hands to either side of Awel and Zevran's adopted daughter's head.

"_So_…" Cyr then gently disengaged his own daughter's hands from Oghren's neck and tucked one of them neatly under his arm. He reached down and took Malenn's hand in his other, leading them both towards the exit. "Shall we?"

"Gah…" Awel muttered. "Um…Well you know we don't have to…we can just have the party, wouldn't want to waste a good ox after all, but…Zevran's a free spirit you know and…I don't want to shac…Well, actually he'd _like _being shackled, but not the point – and you are _not _to repeat that Lennie you hear! – but you know he's…and…"

Cyr nodded understandingly; sympathetically, but did not loosen his hold, wading easily through Awel's nervous flow of chatter until it abruptly stopped in the forecourt. And as he calmly and steadily steered her between the lines of guests, past beaming faces to the slender, golden-clad young man waiting patiently under twined garlands of Andraste's Grace and jasmine, the breeze blew warm tendrils of memory through his mind. A reminder of what he had had once, what he had lost and everything he had gained since.

He had a daughter again; a son and a grandchild and an entire family of Grey Wardens and…as he looked upon the bright faces of Awel and Zevran, he felt glad to bursting and taller than he had felt when he had taken his own Adaia's hand in his and seen his future in his new wife's clear eyes. Life had not always been simple – or ordinary - for this common man, he reflected.

No…_never_ ordinary. Nor would it ever be. And of that, he was glad.

**END**


End file.
